After Long Years.

Otago Witness, Issue 1424, 8 March 1879, Page 21

After Long Years.

A COLONIAL STORY.

By Fabiajj Belt,, Author of "Stella," the " Big Nugget," &c.

{Written for the Otago Witness.)

Chamer I. "Da mortuiH ml nisi bonum." "Tell me exactly how things stand, Noel. I can see by your face that they are worse than we expected." " Worse ! it is ruin. Aye ! and I greatly fear, disgrace." The younger brother looked shocked and incredulous. The elder one leaned his elbow on the heap of papers which he had been examining, and resting his chin on his hand gazed upward at the face which was bent over him. "It is as I tell you. I feared it for years, but he would never trust me with all the papers, and now — sit down and I will try and explain it to you." Maurice Stretton drew a chair to the table and sat down facing his brother. Noel took up the papers and sorted them hastily ; glancing from one to the other as if in doubt where to begin. While he was still hesitating, a tap was heard at the door and a servant entered. " Please, sir, the — the undertaker's man is here." A contraction of pain crossed the young man's brow. "Let him go upstairs, Ellen, I will come." Then turning to his brother, "These can wait for a while," and with a gesture of weariness Noel Stretton rose from his seat and left the room. Maurice heard him mount the stairs with a slow lingering step, heard him enter — but not alone — the room above ; then followed those heavy yet muffled sounds, which fall upon our hearts even more than upon our ears, and the Bon knew that the hands of strangers were moving his father's coffin, bringing it down stairs ready for the funeral on the following day, and a shudder crept over him as he heard the heavy descending tread. He went up to the curtained window with the instinct that seeks for warmth and light, he longed to draw aside the Venetians, but the strong hand of custom restrained him ; he contented himBelf with the glint of spring sunshine, the shimmer of green leaves that were visible between the bars, then he glanced backward round the handsome, comfortable room, with its rich harmonious furniture of carved oak and maroon velvet. A stray beam of sunlight stealing through the closed blinds touched a rich vase of Bohemian glass, and made a point of vivid colour in the sombre bpauty of the darker tints. By tho empty gral estood hia father's chair— the chair which had been tho dead man's own choice and in which neither of his sons had ever sat — this chair had now the curiously suggestive look which we must all of us have noticed, as if it were waiting for its accustomed occupant. Everything in the room spoke of prosperity, comfort, wealth ; there were no visible signs of the ruin of which Noel had spoken. From his childhood, Maurice had never

known what it was to deny himself any reasonable indulgence for want of funds, his father had not been like some men's fathers, always pleading poverty and exhorting to economy ; he had given each of his sons a handsome allowance, and Maurice, who had no extravagant tastes, had never desired to exceed it— and now —what could Noel mean by saying that they were ruined, and even hinting at something still darker. It must be a mistake. The will was very simple. Lawyer as he was, M. Stretton had known how to draw it on half a sheet of note paper, and make it binding, without hiding the grain of meaning in a bushel of legal chaff. His property was to be divided equally between his two sons, the elder being sole executor. A very simple and a very equitable will, and so placed in his desk that Noel had found it 'without any difficulty. All this was as it should be, and tallied well with the young man's recollection of his stately, handsome, kindly father, who had never refused to his sons or to himself any pleasures that money could buy ; who had always enjoyed life, and appeared anxious that all around him should do the same ; and yet so far as Maurice knew, his father had never been reckless or extravagant ; he had had a large practice, several lucrative appointments and agencies, and if he had spent liberally there was overy reason to believe that his receipts had been in accordance. And Noel spoke of ruin, and worse than ruin ; disgrace. It was incomprehensible. Maurice turned from the window and approached the table laden with papers ; he touched them, and drew back his hand. They were his father's private memoranda, and it was almost with a sense of sacrilege that he pushed them from him. In the adjoining room he heard quiet, muffled, movements. The disposition of the furniture was being altered, he distinctly heard the heavy table rolled upon its castors, and then the lifting and replacing of chairs, &o. He tried not to listen, but he could not help it ; his hearing, always acute, enabled him to divine and follow every change. At length it was all done ; the undertaker's men went down to the basement, and a heavy silence fell upon the house of mourning. Outside in the carefully kept garden the spring sunshine lay on the tender green leaves and delicate blossoms. Nature, renewing her youth, woke again from the death-like sleep of winter, and a thousand sweet sounds and scents stole into the closed rooms. " How father would have enjoyed this day," thought Maurice, and then fell to wondering whether there was any real sympathy between man and nature, or whether such fancies were baseless dreams j whether there was a soul in the universe, or whether the whole was a mere piece of clever mechanism, self-evolved. Life and death, puzzles which no man may solve, and after death, the hereafter. How little there is in this world that we understand, how much there is altogether incomprehensible ! Maurice lost himself in these thoughts, he did not notice his brother's protracted absence ; yet he started when Noel opened the door and beckoned to him. "Come now. The men are waiting below to screw down the did." The brothers went into the room of death and stood on either side of the coffin. They looked at the pale features, singularly refined and beautiful in the solemn stillness ; and for some moments they said no word, then Maurice bent down and kissed the icy brow, saying with quivering lips— " He was a good father to hs, Noel." "He was a kind one," assented the other, and Maurice did not heed, or did not notice, the changed epithet. They stood a few moments longer, taking their last look, their last farewell, and after that Maurice put his arm within his brother's and drew him towards the door. " There is a latin proverb," he said, " you know what I mean, Noel, I was never good in classics, something about speaking no ill of the dead." "I know," said Noel, and suddenly withdrawing his arm he returned to the coffin and lifting the face cloth, kissed the cold forehead once, twice, and thrice, with grave earnestness, as one who seals an unbroken vow, and followed his brother into the dining-room. '*\ " You are right, Maurice," he s* younger man started and would h«*ve disclaimed any thought of reproach, but the elder waved him to silence. " You are right, we will protect our father's memory as far as possible ; but you at least must know, and face the truth. We are not only poor men, we are penniless. For years— l cannot tell how many— our father has been living beyond his income, but he has been a trustee and has had money to invest for other people, — and — and — Do you not understand 1 I cannot explain, of course he intended to pay it all back, but the time never came, and now — the chance is gone by. All he has left behind him, every penny, will not pay these debts in full. Now Maurice, do you understand V Too well he understood, and yet it could not, could not be. Death had seemed terrible enough, but what was death when compared with dishonotir. "For myself," continued Noel, "I feared this for some time. I can hardly tell you why ; but I have long known that something was wrong ; however, that is nothing to the purpose now. As executor I shall pay as far as I can. I shall leave the London firm, and work up the practice here, and if the old clients will support m& I shall hope, in time, to pay

off every farthing. But what will yott do?" "It does not matter much," said Maurice, wearily. This last blow had stunned him, he could not speak, or think, or collect his thoughts. The elder brother looked at him pityingly ; to himself this discovery had not come with the shock of a surprise ; he had long feared that his father's affairs were in confusion, and now it seemed to him that he had known of this and expected it for years, and his practical mind immediately grasped the facts and sought for the remedy ; with him it was a matter of course that having once seen the beßfc and only right path he should walk ia it, without wasting time in Belf-pity, but with Maurice it was different. The one brother was like a rock against which the winds and waves beat with little effect ; the other was like a delicate young tree that grows and expands in the sunshine and shelter, but dwarfs and withers when exposed to bitter biting blasts. How would the gentle, sweet, selfpleasing nature endure this trial 1 ? Noel repeated his question. "What shall you do, Maurice?" " What can I do 1" cried the other with sudden bitterness ; " I have no profession, as you have, to fall baok upon l ; lam too old to learn a trade, and besides we hate no money to pay apprenticeship fees. I don't write well enough to be a clerk, and ' I am a perfect muff at arithmetic and book-keeping. I can ride to hounds, and shoot, and fish, and spend money. I always wished to be a farmer as you know, and father promised to start me in Lord Dacre's farm at Ellerslie, as soon as old Snodgrass could be induced to give it up, but the old man says that he had the late Lord's promise to keep the land for hia life, and I have been waiting. Father promised to stock the farm and give me five thousand pounds ; but why do 1 repeat all this ; you know it as well as I do. Noel; are you sure there is no mistake ? It is impossible that our father can have been so cruel, so unjust." " Come and look over the papers for yourself, Maurice; God grant that I may be wrong." The brothers drew their chairs together. With legal acumen and logical clearness, Noel went through the papers and memoranda one by one, explaining them to his companion. Dinner time oame. The meal was served and eaten in silence, and the br©» thers resumed their task. The bright spring day passed into* night, and the darkness fell early in the closed rooms. Maurice lighted the gas, and returned to his place. If he had had any hope that his brother had overstated the case, that hope had long &ince faded away, and yet he mechanically continued to turn over the papers and to listen to Noel's explanations. The hall clock struck twelve, and the loud sonorous strokes echoed and fti« echoed through the silent house. Noel gathered the papers together dfld secured them with elastic bands, then he laid his hands on Maurice's shoulder and said for the third time :— "What will you do?" " What all other useless people, black sheep, and impecunious gentlemen do. I will go to the Colonies," returned the other caustically ; then rising to his feet he threw his arm around his brother's neck and laid his head uponat. " Noel, old fellow, this is a bitter, bitter blow. But our father did not mean it. He meant to do justice by all. Don't you think so?" " I try to think so ; at any rate we will keep the worst of thiß to ourselves. Of course people will know that we are poor,, we can't help that, but we will put as< good a face upon it as we can and save> the old man's memory." " How late it is," said Maurice wearily, " let us go to bed, we have a hard day before us to-morrow."

Chapter 11. " Earth to Earth ' The funeral was over and the brothers returned home, walking dowly arm in arm. It had been an impressive ceremony, not on account of the " pomp and panoply of woe," there had been little of that, for Noel Stretton had directed all the details to be as simple and inexpensive as possible, and many persona pronounced " the lawyer's funeral to be but a poor affair after all. " .But these mal-contents were chiefly the tradespeople who would gladly havesupplied extra facilities for mourning, or feasting, as the case might be. To the* . majority it was unusually impressive,. . because of the long line of mourners,, friends and clients of the deceased, who followed the bier, and by their presence expressed their esteem for the dead man, and consideration for his sons. Noel Stretton, senr., had been a popular man, a man of many friends and acquaintance, most of whom were willing to pay him this last tribute of respect ; and if a little curiosity mingled with their regard, curiosity as to the nature of the dead man's will ; what he had left behind, and what the "boys" would do. Such mixed motives are common to us all, and, did in no way detract from the imposing appearance of the funeral cortege as it wound up the little hill leading to the ugly cemetry of New Brighton. Ugly in itself, yet commanding a splendid view of the wide eatuary of the Mersey, thickly set with ships of all nations, and beyondl it the confused mass of buildings half hidden in a dense cloud of smoke, which; marked the site of the great seaport of Liverpool. " Ashes to ashea, dust to duat," Ths

words were said, the ceremony was over, the heavy sods of earth settled in upon the coffin, the mourners withdrew one by one, and still the brothers lingered, loath to quit the spot, still more unwilling to encounter the queries and promises which they could read in the eyes of their friends. At last they moved away. At the gate, of the cemetery one and another shook hands and spoke ; in most of^the voices could be detected an under-current of relief, almost of congratulation. "You will stay here, Noel; you will not go back to town ; of course you will carry on the practice ; you are young, but the old name will do wonders. Such a pity you were not in your father's office years ago j what a loss he will be, to be Bure ; he knew all our business better than we did ourselves." (Noel winced and moved on a step or two.) " Yes, we shall all all miss him — so sudden too. He waa dead before ,you could get down, was he notl'* . . , , A " Yea, it was a great shock to us ; we can hardly realise it yet." ' "Poor fellow! I daresay not. What Bhallyou do, Maurice? Shall you remain here?" . The same question, so often repeated, bo often to be repeated. What could he do? that.was the, real point ; to himself it seemed as if he had no appointed place, no niche in the world, and among the world's workers, and but for Noel's reBtraininghandhe would have proclaimed the fact aloud in all its bitterness. A wasted life ! was it a wasted life, because at threeand twenty he had to earn his bread 1 and did no.t know how to do it ? In his self-condemnation, Maurice fancied that it was. In truth he had loved to take life easily, the world was so beautiful andihe. had bo little to trouble him. Now all ibis was changed. The world was Btill fair, but tq^him the very sunshine was darkened by the cloud which had fallen upon him. "I do not know yet what I shall do, there is time enough," he answered. It waa not a gracious answer, not what he meant to Bay, but the whole current of his thoughts seemed suddenly changed and embittered, and it required an effort to Bpeak in.the light and, pleasant tone that had once been habitual to him. The ypung men were not inclined to talk over their future plans, ao much was abundantly evident. Noel looked worn and aad, and. Maurice was not like the merry, good-tempered fellow they had all known j this change might be owing entirely to grief at the loss of their father, or they might be disappointed with his ■will, or with the amount of property which he; bad left behind. Thia last auppoßition amounted almost to certainty when in reply to a question about the houße, Noel said that he did not think that he should keep it on, a smaller residence would do for him. "It is too expensive for a beginner," he said, shaking his head. ■ " But appearances are so much, everything,^ may say," said thia interlocutor, the manager of one of the branch banks, and a man who was known to be living considerably beyond his income. "You must live in good style, make a show, and do things properly " "Must I? I think you are wrong, Walcot. . I have no belief in forcing prosperity by aping the appearance of it, or eating my cake before I have earned ii. But really,,my father's death was so sudden that neither Maurice nor I have arranged our plans for the future, except that I shall carry on the practice, and I iope tih'at my father's old clients will kindly give me their support." This he Baid in such a manly and graceful manner that moßt of his hearers were, pleased, some surprised, for Noel Stretton, junr., shad not hitherto been a popular man, he traa naturally too reserved and self-sus-tained to court or even desire tbe approval of the multitude ; it was Maurice who resembled his father in that anxiety to be liked and thought well of, which had made the dead so universal a favourite, and accounted in a great ' measure for the unsatisfactory state in which his affairs were left, for he had never been able to say " no," to deny himself, or his sons, his friends, or even his acquaintance, any pleasure that money could buy. He liked to be loved, to be looked up to as a little providence, and so he had obeyed the Apoßtolic injunction, though not perhaps quite in the manner intended by St. Paul. He had been the most popular man in all the suburbs of Liverpool, from Birkenhead to' New Brighton ; he had won golden opinions from both sexes and all classes, arid' bo it came to pass that his funeral train was numerous and imposing. But for stfl this a price had to Be paid, and that price was the peace of mind, and the life's happiness of the two sons that he left behind. Gradually the funeral party melted away, two or three moving in one direction, and half-a-dozen in another ; some hastening to catch the steam ferry and return to their business, others going straight to their homes in the villa residences over-looking the river. A few spoke of the dead man, and said, "The boys were dreadfully cut up ;" the majority talked of cotton and wool, what was up and what was down, the latest news at Lloyd's, and the chances of a European war. The brothers were alone. They entered the house, every door and window of 'which was set wide open to admit the air, and Maurice threw himself on a sofa in the dining-room and hid his face among the pillowß. " Don't give way, old man," said Noel, kindly, "Here, take a glass of wine, Uhomw io»»te upo» it."

The name ot the old butler, who had been an institution in the house ever since he could remember, and whose oddity had always amused him, brought a faint smile to Maurice's lips. " Noel, you will keep him." "I don't know, perhaps so. I doubt whether he would go even if I dismissed him. Maurice, John Passmore is coming to spend the evening with us, he offered, and I could not refuse." A quick hot flush burned in Maurice's hitherto pale face, he rose from the sofa, and went and stood with his back to the light. "Why should you refuse him?" he said, " I wonder John has not been to see us before." "He has, but I told the servants to deny us to everyone, forgetting to make an exception in his favour." "Noel," said Maurice, still with his back to the light, and in such a position that his brother could not see him, unless he turned determinedly to do so. " Noel, you said we must keep our father's secret from all the world, shall you keep it from John Passmore ?" " I think so : there is no reason why we should reveal to him or to any one what had so much better be buried in oblivion ; but .why do you ask ?" "Because I think we can trust him, and— and— in short he ought to know." Noel Stretton turned swiftly round and confronted his brother, he marked the flushed face and quivering lips, and a sudden light of comprehension and sympathy over-spread hia face. " Oh Maurice ! is it Eveline ?" he said. " I love her as my life," returned the other, " but I am a ruined man, without a penny or the means of earning one, and disgraced by the sins of my father. I am no fit mate for Eva Passmore ; but I love her, I have always loved her." " And what does she say ?" questioned the elder brother. " I don't know, I have never asked her, I was waiting until this affair about the farm was settled, and then I intended to speak, and now—" he groaned and turned away. In a moment he resumed. " Of course I cannot speak now, but 1 do not wish John to think that I have been trifling with his sister. Will you tell him how things stand, that I am going away to the antipodes, far out of his sight and reach, never to trouble him any more. I will just say good-bye to Eveline and that will be the end." " Hark 1 there is John's knook." "I know it is, I saw him pass the window. lam going into the garden for a few minutes. You will break the ice for me, won't you ? there's a good fellow. If I once began I would Bay too much, and you know exactly how things stand. Tell him just so much as is necessary, that he may see that we put perfect confidence in him. He ought to know." ' ' Yes, I'll tell him. But oh, Maurice, I am so sorry." " Hush ! don't pity me. I oan't stand it just now. lam an unlucky devil, but j I suppose it is my fate." He left the room by one door as John Passmore entered it by another. (To h$ continued.)